Just Crawl Out Through The Fallout (Back To Me)
by nuka-cherries
Summary: Steve Rogers had everything he wanted. He had a wife, a newborn son and his best friend living next door. They were alive and well, living in peace and in recovery after all their giving their service to their countries in the Sino-American War. They lived in peace until October 23rd 2077, when nuclear bombs dropped all across the US and the three veterans were caught in it.


**Hey there! This is gonna borrow both elements from Fallout 4 and the MCU. Very canon divergent. Tags will be updated as I go. I don't own Fallout or Marvel. Enjoy!**

* * *

2284

* * *

Sam Wilson liked to think that he was a good person, all things considered, in the great big irradiated mess of the frozen Massachusetts Commonwealth.

The Great Freeze. The Second Ice Age. The Never Ending American Winter. Well, whatever the hell it was, it had many many names.

Sam just thought it was too goddamn cold.

He was honest, but knew when to keep secrets. He was optimistic, but knew when to face the harsh truths of reality. He was strong, but no super soldier like the famous Captain before the bombs dropped.

Born and raised in Rivet City, a settlement in the Capital Wasteland, Sam had a few odd jobs around the area. Started as a caravan guard, then eventually, as a Knight for the Brotherhood of Steel. Did a grand total of sixteen major missions, power armor and all, and patrolled the Citadel on his downtime.

Things were good until a Behemoth appeared to fuck all of that up.

Some Vault Dweller, a nineteen year old kid that wouldn't tell the Brotherhood their name, arrived in time to launch the mini-nuke that ended the Behemoth's destruction.

Sam barely got out alive. Alive, but with a bad shoulder that no stimpak could fix. One of the scouts in the city was able to find a durable shoulder brace in a former pharmacy and he's worn it ever since. No longer able to be a knight, he took up a post as a on-board medic on the Prydwen I. He learned the practice of counseling from the scholars aboard, and so he became both a medic and a counselor. Not bad of an outcome.

The three years that followed the battle with the Behemoth were more than enough to realize that the Brotherhood was just as distasteful as the people in DC perceived them to be. The one good thing going for them was Project Purity, but that ended in an explosive disaster. With the increasingly growing discriminatory cause, he couldn't stomach it anymore.

In order to completely get them off his back, Sam resorted to faking his own death to the Brotherhood of Steel. It was an inconvenience, but as was life in the Wasteland; a great, big inconvenience. Survival of the fittest. But he did what he had to do to survive and tried not to kill anyone that came in his way. It just wasn't in his nature. It wasn't right.

He got out of the Capital Wasteland just in time before the Prydwen I suffered a major technical accident and exploded, killing everyone on board. Last he heard, the Brotherhood was reconstructing in the Citadel, but he could still spot the Prydwen II hovering in the snowy horizon of the Commonwealth. Pre-War folks really loved blimps, apparently.

Now, five years into being part of the Railroad, he helped liberate the same Synths that the Brotherhood of Steel despised with a passion.

Go figure.

* * *

Codenames were vital in the Commonwealth, especially in the Railroad. Being secretive became first nature and the hidden codes and signs became a second language.

His code name was the Falcon. He had only read about them in books and hadn't seen one in real life until he came to the Commonwealth. All of the wildlife, save for the avian species, were affected by the radiation that came from the Great War.

As for the Railroad, He wasn't a Heavy like Nat, a rescued synth that could wield a minigun like it was a paper clip. Rather, he was just a regular agent, who did more walking and talking rather than fighting. He had enough charisma in him to avoid scuffles and bargain deals with caravans and shop owners through out the settlements. He knew the safer shortcuts to and from HQ and the rest of the Commonwealth. He knew how to avoid super mutants and how to survive.

Every month, he spent a week in Goodneighbor, essentially picking up Synths that had stumbled their way into the settlement. Goodneighbor was in no way a safe place for a Synth, but bump into the right people, they'd be in good hands. As tough-as-nails, give-no-shits-about-anything that the city was, the odds of running into an unannounced ally were moderate to slightly successful.

And that's better than the ratio of 0 to none that came from Diamond City.

The synths coming into the Wasteland were becoming less and less. And it wasn't due to the year long winter weather. Sam highly doubted that the Institute had a change of heart last moment and stopped making them.

In January of 2284, Sam rescued six synths from Goodneighbor. A pretty large batch than the usual three. In February, they were five. Then came a record breaker of nine in March. But the numbers started to dwindle. April meant four. Then to three in May. Then none from June to October.

The Wasteland stayed the same. The snow didn't melt unless it was in the pot over a boiling hearth. The raiders, too drugged up on Psycho and Rage to notice the cold, still continued raiding. More synths were dying out there, whether at the mercilessness of the wilderness in the wasteland or the anti-synth bigotry of the people populating it.

So Sam didn't anticipate that in November, on his last day of his monthly visit in Goodneighbor, he'd get a note.

He woke up from a midday nap to a small knock and a crumpled piece of paper haphazardly shoved underneath his hotel room door. He didn't bother to open the door. Whoever the messenger was didn't want to be discovered. The Commonwealth was big, but the population? Not so much. And a city as small as Goodneighbor, he'd run into them soon enough if needed to be.

When he unfolded the note, it was when he saw it.

A modified version of the ally Railroad insignia: the number thirteen with eight thick lines emanating from it.

Agent 13. The Third Rail. Sharon, an ally to the Railroad, was on duty.

And a synth must have stumbled through.

* * *

Outside, the snow crunched underneath his boots as he made his way to the Third Rail. From the stories that the Pre-War ghouls would tell him, Goodneighbor used to be part of Boston. The old city name he knew, from the semi-burnt newspapers found scattered around town. What he only learned recently was that the Third Rail's reasoning for being underground was that it used to be a subway station, an underground train.

The security guard gave him a short nod and let him in and Sam descended down the metal stair well and past the gates.

As much as he enjoyed the Third Rail, the walk down to it was rather tedious.

He walked into the bar area, a little bit more cleaner than usual. It's gotten more cleaner since Sharon took over as head management. She opted for burning the trash rather than storing it behind.

As the note promised, Agent 13 was on shift. Of course to the patrons, she was only known as Sharon. Her job as an agent of Shield, a faction more secretive that managed to be even more secretive than the Railroad, was a fact that Sam knew of. A secret for a secret. She made for a very powerful and reliable ally. Shield was more on helping the humans of the Commonwealth on a smaller, more secretive working-in-the-shadows scale, while the Minutemen worked in the light and were very well-known for both their victories and failures to the people.

"Hey Sharon," he greeted to the blonde woman behind the bar.

"Falcon," Sharon smiled. "You look well."

"I took a short nap. I feel very well rested."

"Wish I could say the same. Been on my feet since five in the morning."

"Sorry about that. I'd talk to you about the weather outside, but as always, it's too damn cold."

"You and me both. So, what can I get for you?"

"I'll have the Dirty Wastelander, please."

It was the first drink he had bought for him while training under another agent of the Railroad, Clint Barton. A personal favorite, Sam considered it his good luck charm whenever he came by Goodneighbor and always ordered it when Sharon was around. She knew how to mix it just right.

"You could always change it up," she suggested. "We just got a shipment of Amontillado wine in from Diamond City this morning."

"I'll pass. You ever hear of a piña colada?" Sam asked. "Apparently, they were delicious pre-war."

"I've heard of them. I hate to be the one to break it to you, but we haven't had any piñas or coladas in the past two hundred years," Sharon poured the two shots of whiskey into the glass, and uncapped a Nuka Cola to accompany them. Sparing a small glance over her shoulder, she pocketed the cap instead of putting it under the counter, with the rest of the currency from the bar.

At that, Sam smiled a little bit. He'd do the same too.

"True," he said.

"On the rocks?" Sharon asked.

"In this weather? Without."

"You're the only one in the entire Wasteland who drink their mixed alcohol warm."

"Nothing has been warm in the Commonwealth for ten years," Sam said. "Unless you count trash-can and dumpster fires. One ice cube is just one step closer to frostbite."

Sharon let out a chuckle. "As you say. One dirty wastelander for the gentleman," she slid the drink forward.

"Thank you, madam," Sam winked and slightly tipped his glass to her before taking a drink.

"That'll be ten caps."

At that, Sam let out a small laugh, nearly spitting out his drink. "Damn, Sharon. You just could not wait, couldn't you?" he said once he put down his drink.

"We don't do tabs here at the Third Rail," Sharon said. "Captain's orders."

"You mean your orders," Sam corrected.

"Yes."

The sweet taste of the mutfruit juice was a nice contrast to the strength of the whiskey and the Nuka-Cola.

"I'll pay up," Sam reached into his pockets and retrieved the respective amount of caps and the crumpled note.

Sharon began counting the caps and pocketed the note. Sam knew she would burn it later.

"So, you want to get down to business?" Sharon asked.

"At the end of this glass," Sam said casually. "I noticed there's no live entertainment," Sam gestured to the empty stage next a few bar stools away from him. "Where's Trish?"

"She had the night off. Severely sore throat," Sharon said. "She caught that bug that's been going around."

"What bug? I haven't seen a single insect in five years."

"Sam."

"It's a joke, Sharon. I couldn't sleep last night due to everyone coughing up a storm at Rexford."

"Luckily, the bug wears off in about a week, so Trish should be okay in a few days. Not sure about the rest."

"Hey Cameron," Sharon turned to the slightly younger male bartender as he wiped down the opposite end of a towel with a rag. "Cover me real quick? I'm going for a smoke."

The curly haired brunette nodded. "Sure thing, boss."

"Let me bring my coat," Sharon said to Sam. "And I'll join you."

Sam nodded. "I'll meet you outside."

* * *

"I'm assuming the smoke break is not an excuse."

"I've been itching to for a cigarette all day," Sharon admitted.

"So, where's that package you were talking about?"

"In the back alley," Sharon pointed with her thumb behind her. "I went outside to get rid of some empty bottles and then I saw him. Wearing one of those old war time nurse outfits, barefoot, and holding a scalpel out. Soaked wet too."

"Who and where would you go for a swim in this weather?" Sam asked.

"Beats me," Sharon shrugged.

"If Shield ever gets too stuffy for you…" Sam trailed off.

Sharon shook her head, but her smile betrayed any annoyance.

"Walk the end of the Freedom trail," Sharon finished the riddle for him. "I'll know where to find you. Shield hasn't gotten too stuffy for me just yet."

"Plenty of espionage that you do."

"That's one thing we have in common. We both keep secrets."

"Me? I have no secrets. I'm an open book."

"Yet you won't tell me your first name."

"And you won't tell me your last. Which is fine by me. It could be something completely badass. Like Bond. Sharon Bond, like those pre-war spy movies they'd show at the drive-in."

"You make it sound like I'm the Silver Shroud."

"Or Captain America. Hell, you might be both, with all the badassery you do around the Commonwealth."

"It's nothing. You already have a superhero name. The Falcon, a man full of mystery," Sharon said. "Do you fly?"

"Yes, you're just never around to see it. But there's no mystery about me. Born in the Capitol, have a bad shoulder from a rough fight. Frequent customer of Rexford. And you know my job description. I help people."

"You do. It's good work that you do. I'll buy you a drink someday, when we're both off-duty."

Sam grinned. "I look forward to it."

Sharon finished her cigarette and stubbed it out, flicking it into the nearby burning trash can. She tossed the paper ball afterwards. With a small wave, she bid her farewell to Sam and walked inside what used to be a subway station.

Left alone to his thoughts and the brief warmth of his cigarette, Sam stubbed it out on the cold brick wall of the bar building. He dropped it on the pavement and ground it with the sole of his boot. He repeated the action that Sharon did and narrowly made it into the trash can.

His aim was still off. Oh well.

He turned to the alley and started to slowly walk there. Any loud noises would probably scare the Synth away and that wouldn't be ideal for either of them.

He gently rolled his shoulders and walked, snow crunching alongside his paces.

Time to get this show on the road.

* * *

The alley was rather dark despite it being the midday with the neighboring building casting a shadow over the long space. With what the host of the Diamond City Radio show, some over enthusiastic kid named Peter, described the day being overcast and cloudy. No trace of the sun could be seen in the gray of the sky.

"Hey there," Sam greeted. This was one of the things that came with the job: talking down people who were shaken up or in distress. He did a good job of it in the Capital, did a better job now with the Railroad.

As expected, the man in light blue long sleeved scrubs was another scared synth, unaware of where he was and what was going on. Seeing the freezing cold-yet-livable hell of a Commonwealth for the first time. He had the same scared expression as the rest of the synths Sam had gotten to safety. The synth fought his way out of the last place he was in, with parts of his collar covered in blood. He lacked any injuries.

From what Sam could see, the synth was barefoot, pale feet bright red due to the cold. Snowflakes clung to his hair and his cheeks were flushed with the all-too familiar signs of frostbite, a common response to the thermal climate of the Wasteland.

"Stay back!" the synth shakily pointed the scalpel at Sam, a common response to the social climate of the Wasteland.

It was going to be a long day.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam said. "Just going to ask you a few questions."

"Then put the gun down," the man continued. "The one you have tucked on your lower back."

Sam was aware of his 10mm glow sighted pistol being concealed in his leather back holster. It was hidden behind his flannel shirt and thick red and gray winter jacket, the easy disguise of a civilian farmhand.

The Falcon had many questions, like how the hell this synth could tell he was armed. But he put those thoughts to a halt. The synth was nervous, and interrogation was not what he needed.

"How about this? I put my gun down first and then you put your scalpel down. An easy compromise that will benefit the two of us," Sam suggested.

The synth was surprised with the compromise, and nodded slowly.

"...Okay," the synth said. "But you go first."

"Alright, I can do that."

Sam unholstered the gun and made sure to show that he kept the safety on. He put it down on the floor in front of him.

The synth didn't put down his scalpel.

"Hey, pal," Sam chided gently. "We had a deal. If the gun goes down, the scalpel goes down too."

"I'm not your pal," the synth responded harshly.

"Okay, disregard the pal thing. But we have a deal."

The synth was much too far of a distance to actually lunge to hurt him.

"Safety's on," Sam added. "I have nothing else on me. And you know that."

The synth considered it, then lowered the scalpel and let it drop to the frozen ground next to him.

"Don't get near me," he said briskly.

Sam let out an inward sigh of relief.

The hard part was over. The synth was no longer armed and not going to hurt him or himself. The two men were both out of danger, for the time being.

Alright. Step two.

"I won't move an inch," Sam reassured and lowered his straining arms. "Okay, first question, and I ask this to everyone in your situation; have you taken any substances?"

Synths were immune to a lot of things: fertility, aging, but not the effects of drugs. Jet would still slow down time for them, Psycho would still charge them with adrenaline and make them aggressive and practically immune to all sorts of damage. Alcohol could still get them drunk. Buffout could, well, buff them out.

"Substances?" the synth asked.

"Alcohol. Drugs or enhancers like Jet, Psycho, Buffout," Sam listed. "Have you drank or taken any of that?"

The guy thought about it and shook his head. "I haven't had anything."

"Okay, that's good," Sam said. "You might be wondering why I'm here. I'm here to help you."

"Why the hell would you help me?"

"It's my job to help people like you," Sam said. "I came from the Third Rail. Heard you ran into some trouble on the way here. Which brings us to the second thing; do you remember where you came from?"

"I came from the sea," the synth said. "From the East."

Sam nodded in understanding. "What about before that?" he pressed on. The more knowledge, the better.

The synth glanced upwards, the action of trying to recall a thought.

"I don't...know," he said. "All I remember is being washed up on the shore. And running."

Just like Sam expected.

Synths with their memory wiped wasn't uncommon. Hell, synths and memory issues were synonymous with each other. It wasn't their faults. Nowhere close to it.

So, that complicates things a little bit. No biggie. Nothing the memory den and Dr. Cho's machine couldn't fix. Sam is a professional. He's got this.

"Hey, that's alright. We can help you."

The synth's eyes widened. "Is there more with you?" he asked in alarm as he backed further into the corner.

Okay. So the synth is afraid of being crowded. Sam had to make sure of that being accommodated if the synth wanted to come with him to HQ.

"Not with me," he reassured. "But elsewhere. We can help you. It's a solid team."

"Help me? What are you with?"

"I'm with the Railroad."

"What's that?"

"We help out people like you. And you look like you need some help."

"They're not going to hurt me, right?"

"Not at all. I promise you that. You can come with me and I'll get you to safety."

The synth bit his lip and thought about it. Sam remained silent, letting him take his time.

"Do you also promise that I won't be poked and prodded?" the synth asked, a bit timidly. Like he was embarrassed to ask such a thing.

A twinge of sympathy resonated through Sam.

"Absolutely," he replied. "We won't hurt you one bit."

There was a moment of tense silence as the synth contemplated his decision. Then he nodded. He pocketed the scalpel and stood up.

"Okay. I'll go with you."

Sam smiled. "Welcome aboard."

Sam took that moment to kneel down to pick up his gun and place it back in its holster.

The synth took walked toward Sam, into the light of the alley. Now that he was out of the darkness, Sam finally got a proper look at the synth.

He had long wavy dark brown hair, a few inches past his chin and bright blue eyes, brightest that Sam had ever seen.

"What should I call you, mysterious stranger?" the synth asked.

"No mystery about me. Call me Falcon," Sam offered a gloved hand to shake.

He watched as the synth mirrored the action with a cold metal hand.

"Call me Bucky."

* * *

 **We all need a bit of a _cold_ opening in our lives. :) Thanks for reading! Comments are welcome!**


End file.
